


With Good Intentions

by illegible



Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Original Character(s), aiming for canon tone, it really is gen all the way lol no funny business, using a specific WoL but hopefully it won't be distracting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-07-28 13:37:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20064892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/pseuds/illegible
Summary: Emet-Selch lingers with the return of night in Rak'tika. Occasionally details like titles and greater callings slip away.





	1. Chapter 1

He’d expected the Ascian to take his leave altogether, traveling back to Slitherbough.

With night returned to the sky, Emet-Selch has nothing to limit him save his own patience. A question of whether it would it be more boring left to his own devices or accompanying the “hero” who’d inconvenienced him time and again.

His answer varies moment to moment. Thancred has no patience for it. Minfilia takes care to speak as little as possible while the remaining Scions adopt a tone of cautious civility.

Cenric, apparently the Warrior of Light and Darkness both, decides he has enough enemies for now. There remains ample opportunity for bloodshed. If Emet-Selch simply wants to talk, the change is welcome.

Death will come in its own time.

So he asks questions. They dodge around true names and tragedies and contrary purposes. Cenric takes care to better his stride after being accused of chronic shuffling. From how Emet-Selch smirks and pointedly remains slouched, he trusts the man understands a roll-of-the-shoulders offered in reply.

There are moments of almost companionable silence, and there are moments of harmless needling. Privately, under alien skies and surrounded by friends who treat him like he’s somehow _better_… there is some relief in that.

If only he could see value in endings. In mortals.

Cenric doesn’t have to contemplate the appeal of everlasting life. It isn’t something he could endure if he wanted to.

Emet-Selch sits apart from the rest of them, just beyond the campfire’s glow. Even with Rak’tika’s heat and humidity, he refuses to shed his coat. Spirit or no, Cenric can’t imagine it’s comfortable.

So he makes his own way, lazily, to the same tree the Ascian leans against. Drags a star velvet hood from his head, holds it in both hands as he sits. Perfectly perpendicular against the trunk.

“You are aware,” says Emet-Selch, tersely, “that it is rude to invade people’s personal space uninvited?”

Cenric’s lips twitch. “I am,” he replies. “Still, if you’ve chosen to stay with us regardless there’s no point avoiding you.”

This earns a snort. “My observation has nothing to do with your company.”

The Warrior smiles wider. “You’ll need to be more discreet then. I don’t know where you got the idea I wouldn't retaliate.”

He glances to the fur collar. It’s within reach. He could tug it if he wanted to _really_ irritate his conversation partner.

He refrains.

The Ascian sighs. “Do you have a reason for pestering me instead of those charming friends of yours?”

Cenric shuts his eyes. “I have another question for you, as it happens,” he says, with the same careful levity Lyse loved to use.

Even without looking, it’s easy to picture the eye-roll this earns. “Then by all means, do get it over with,” says Emet-Selch.

A slow exhale through the nose. Words weighed meticulously in advance. “If you don’t mind,” says the hyur, “truly. Are you afraid to die?”

The response is both flat and immediate.

“No,” Emet-Selch answers. “I’ve died several times already. It’s inconvenient.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Silence. A distant, crackling fire. The thrum of birds and frogs and insects.

“Planning to murder me soon, are you?” asks the Angel of Truth.

Cenric shakes his head. “This might come as a shock, but I really would prefer not to.”

Another pause.

After some consideration, he adds, “I’m not asking you as an Ascian. I’m only asking you.”

“Ah,” says Emet-Selch. The Warrior of Light looks, and finds a faint smile crossing Garlean lips. “I _am_ an Ascian, though. It is impossible to divorce this from my answer as it would be to divorce you from your Mother’s service.”

“In that case,” says Cenric, “not so impossible. I would remind you that I did live before Her summons.”

Neither of them says anything for some time.

“I'm afraid of what would be left undone without me,” says Emet-Selch quietly, watching the reborn stars. “Of all the lives that would be lost to my failure.”

The admission hangs uninterrupted between them.

“For whatever it may be worth,” says Cenric, gently, “I understand. As much as I’m able, I understand. It isn’t something I wish on you.”

“How kind,” says Emet-Selch, sardonic.

A beat.

“Really,” he adds at last. Softer this time. “It’s a kind thought. I can see why they like you.”

This time, it is the Warrior who hesitates.

“I don’t think I’m kind,” he says. “But it’s generous of you to say so.”

Emet-Selch chuckles. The sound is bittersweet,

“What a shame it would be if we had to finish each other anyway.”


	2. Chapter 2

On the second day, as Norvrandt’s moon ascends brighter than Menphina’s ever was, he lingers.

When dusk first approached Y’shtola caught, cleaned, and skewered several fish. She did this with efficiency that belied practice, and it strikes Cenric again that she has grown several years older than when they met last. The fish, cooked with mushrooms and wild spinach from the Viis, make for a respectable meal.

Emet-Selch neither approaches nor requests anything, but sits apart.

Watching. Listening.

It falls to Cenric, then, to take a second share and offer it to the stranger in their midst.

***

“Someone did it for me, once, when I was hungry,” says the Warrior when asked. “Well before I started adventuring. It’s the least I can do.”

“If _I’m_ hungry,” says the Ascian, in a tone that might be amused or annoyed, “I needn’t use this form at all. It’s no obstacle.”

But he accepts the food anyway, and they eat sitting side-by-side.

***

“I’ve tasted the delicacies of Allag and Meracydia, of Amdapor, Nym, and Mhach,” says Emet-Selch eventually. “I’ve made a point to sample as much as circumstances will allow. Leave no stone unturned.”

“Did you enjoy any of it?”

Yellow eyes close. He smiles faintly.

“What a ridiculous question,” murmurs Emet-Selch, leaning forward. He holds himself at the elbows, shifts to watch what embers remain. “By your standards, no doubt it was exemplary. Of course I would trade all of it for even the most meager scrap from home.”

Cenric inclines his head. Considers. “...Tell me. Would that be because it was any better, or just because it was yours?”

This receives only a shrug.

“Both.”

In the distance, an animal screams.

It goes unanswered.

Cenric exhales. Eventually, he says, “Of course sampling the local specialties of Rak’tika changed your mind.”

A snort. The single driest expression he has seen.

“Naturally.”

***

Under most circumstances they would all be preparing for bed by now. But then under most circumstances, Emet-Selch would have departed hours before.

“You realize,” Thancred says, not directly but with calculated volume, “that there are children here with strict curfews.”

Minfilia looks shocked at first, then mortified. “But… Thancred, I don’t have a—“

“It’s time,” the gunbreaker goes on, “for any guests to leave.” He pauses. Shrugs. Adds far more lightly, “Only polite.”

Emet-Selch sighs. “Would one of the adults please put the poor boy to bed before he has a fit? I’ve done my share already.”

The group stares at him. Minfilia, slack-jawed, quickly claps a hand over her mouth. From how her eyes crease it looks as if she’s doing her best not to laugh.

Thancred’s expression contorts like he’s smelled something particularly foul.

The Ascian shakes his head, and before anyone can reply continues, “Had I wished to butcher you all in the night, I would have done so already. If anyone has reason to fear in this situation it’s _me_.”

“Then why remain?” asks Y’shtola flatly.

“Simply put," says Emet-Selch, "I'm tired. Consider it a test of character.” He glances in Cenric’s direction. Flashes a mirthless smile. “Not very heroic to kill a man in his sleep, is it?”

Speechless, the Warrior can only shake his head.


End file.
